I swear, if Lisa, Devin, or anyone else dares to give me a dirty look, I might just have to take off my heels and jab someone in the eye.
Okay, that might be a little extreme. Sue me. I get cranky when I don’t eat.
The rest of the day is uneventful. No one else assigns me a pointless task, which is a plus, because Bob’s stupid brief takes foreverand it’s already six by the time I start preparing for an important trial I have coming up. Looks like it’ll be a long night.
The office thins out. Boisterous voices shout to each other. I hear the other attorneys arguing about which bar to drown their sorrows in tonight. Soon, there’s just a few of us left. A young attorney who looks like a frat boy in a suit walks by my cubicle. He’s on his way out. “Staying late tonight, huh Bethany?”
“That’s right,” I answer, without looking up.
“I like it, I like it,” the frat boy replies. “Don’t work too hard though, and, uh . . . go easy on those cigarettes.”
I look at him, nostrils flared. The frat boy is grinning. He knew how to get a rise out of me. You see, that’s their little joke, that I’m a smoker. The thing is, tonight’s not an exception; often I stay for hours after everyone else has gone home, catching up on the work I didn’t get to because of all the busy work that gets dumped on my desk throughout the day. The only other person in the office that late tends to be Phil the janitor. He’s a grumpy old man who’s started smoking at night, while he wheels around his cart of cleaning supplies. I’ve caught him doing it a couple of times. Does he apologize? No. Does he ask me not to tell on him? No. He just shrugs and goes on his merry way, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. The next morning, when the attorneys come in and smell the cigarettes, they say stuff like, “Bethany’s been at it again.” Or, “Smells like Bethster was really sucking them down tonight” — of course emphasizing the word ‘sucking’ because they’re basically a bunch of fifth-graders who jump on any opportunity to make something sound sexual.
At first, I would vehemently deny it. But eventually, I realized they didn’t actually think I was the secret smoker. They just wanted a laugh on my expense. So now, I ignore them when they mention me and my smoking.
But I’m still in a foul mood. So this time, I don’t ignore the grinning imbecile who’s just standing there, waiting for me to lose my cool.
Well, it’s his lucky day. He doesn’t have to wait long.
I pick up a pen and fling it right at his smug face.
“What the hell?!” he cries out. “You’re a psycho.”
I glare at him and cross my arms. He shakes his head and walks away, and I hear him mutter ‘bitch’ under his breath.
I stand up and look around. Everyone’s gone. Except for Phil. He’s humming a tune as the overhead lights bounce off his balding head.
I sit, put in my earplugs, and consider all the crap I have to do before going home. The work never ends and I’m already getting sleepy. Ugh. Maybe I should get some coffee or do some stretches. Get the blood flowing. Or I could rest my head on my desk and close my eyes. Think about Joey. Just for a second . . .
* * *
An houror so later I wake up, confused and groggy. It takes me a second to realize where I am.
But wait. What’s that smell? Is something burning? It’s not the usual cigarette smoke.
I stand up and what I see makes me gasp. Phil has left his cart of cleaning supplies in the middle of the room, which would normally be fine. Except he left his lit cigarette on the edge of the cart, too close to the bottles of cleaning supplies and paper towels.
It’s now burning through one of the cheap plastic bottles. The labels wore off a long time ago. Phil may have their contents memorized, but I don't, so I have no idea what's going to happen when the bottle in question ignites.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I’ll have to wait more than a few seconds to find out.
I’m debating whether to run over to the cart and pluck the cigarette away from the bottle of chemicals, when Phil emerges from the men’s room, zipping up his fly. Still whistling.
Our eyes meet from across the room. He follows my gaze and when he sees the plastic bottle burning, his jaw drops.
Flames billow from the ruptured bottle and immediately spread to the others, exploding outward in every direction. The papers and files on the nearby desks also catch fire, sending glowing scraps into the air twirling like demonic confetti.
This is bad. Very bad. I look to Phil for what to do next. He looks at me, then at the fire one last time before turning and bolting out of the office, screaming, “Fire! Fire!”
I’m paralyzed with fear. The fire’s spreading so unevenly due to the chemical splatter, it feels like it’s taunting and encircling me like a sadistic, many-limbed predator.
The sprinklers turn on, but the water seems only to annoy the inferno. Like a feather tickling at the side of a raging bull.
For a moment, I snap out of my deep trance of terror, grab my phone to dial 9-1-1.
Oh no! It’s dead. I should’ve charged it before I took a nap.
This cannot be happening. My day from hell has gotten even more hellish.
